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by acrosspontneuf (FangedAngel)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Lia Tabris, Post-Dragon Age: Origins, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 23:12:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19755700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangedAngel/pseuds/acrosspontneuf
Summary: Just a soft, sleepy morning in Antiva City.





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**Author's Note:**

> Written back in January for the gorgeous [Aly](https://princessbatteringram.tumblr.com), whose OCs are all absolutely epic.

Zevran’s not used to waking up after her, not used to her absence in their bed, and his heart clenches with the loss and panic he’s carried over from his dream, but then he hears her, and then he sees her, and he has to hide a smile in one of their pillows.

Lia’s pacing, again, holding the leather-bound journal Zevran bought her at the market a few early mornings ago, one of her daggers in her other hand, twirling it around her fingers without looking. The rug at the foot of their bed is so frayed from the constant pattern of her light feet that Zevran makes a note to buy one or two more from that merchant she favours, the one who uses the multicoloured threads that make Lia smile that secret soft smile of hers.

She’s not taken notice of him yet, engrossed in reading Leliana’s most recent letter in the low light of flickering candles, and he breathes as slowly as he can, because the moment is perfect and he daren’t break it. A cool breeze is coming in through the open windows, dancing around the curtains, carrying the scent of the sea inside their apartment, weaving it into the wild curls of Lia’s loosened hair. Dawn is just breaking, but the familiar routine of Antiva City is already in swing, the bells of the ships making their way into the bay, merchants singing and swearing on their way to the markets, the entangled smells of spiced coffee and hot steel and sweet wine and beaten leather, the echoing melody of horses’ hooves on cobbled streets, and the rhythm of the waves breaking along the shore always in the background, and Zevran still feels like he’s trapped in a dream, a beautiful one, because he doesn’t understand how he can be this lucky, to be here with her, home with her. He never thought he’d love anyone more than he loves this flawed and beautiful city of his, but the sight of her takes his breath away every time, the stunning complexity of her stealing his words and his wits, and he’ll never get used to her being so close, to how he could just reach out and touch her and fall into her.

Lia always laughs when he tells her that the sun adores her, but she doesn’t see what Zevran sees now, the nascent light making its way into the room and focusing on her as she bites her lip, her skin glowing even more golden than usual, the gloss of her curls mesmerising. She’s wearing an old cream undershirt of Zevran’s that’s loose on her, and so worn he can see her skin through it, and Zevran suddenly misses her, impossibly, misses the green of her eyes and the warmth of her skin and salt on her lips and the scent of her hair, so he moves and she becomes immediately aware of him, and she looks at him, and he is lost once more.

Lia drops the journal and the dagger on their desk, and then sits on the edge of their bed, that smile curving the fullness of her lips. Her hands smell like parchment and metal as they trace his face on their way to tangling gently in his hair, angling him just right for her kiss, and he falls, and falls, and falls, and she whispers ‘good morning, my love’ against his lips, and he must be dreaming because reality can’t possibly be this perfect.

Zevran presses his forehead to hers and breathes her in, and is strongly reminded of those nights spent in her tent, early on, the desperation and the fear and the incertitude, and he thanks all the deities he can think of for bringing them here. They’ve survived, and they’re together, they’re home, and when he touches her now there is no anger simmering under the surface of her skin, no tension. The memories are still there, the scars of her past, of the things she’s witnessed and overcome, and he knows that the fight will never be over, not really, and he’ll be by her side through it all, but for now, she is here, she is safe, relaxed and carefree in his arms, here where he can kiss each of her scars, where he can brush his fingers through her hair and down the gentle line of her back until it curves at her waist. He kisses her again and grins and holds her closer, ever closer.

'We should go to the market soon, tesoro,’ he says, the happiness in his chest overflowing like the sunshine now fully illuminating their room. 'Maybe that merchant of yours has an indestructible rug that will survive your advances.’

Lia makes an indignant sound that he knows he’ll cherish forever, and he laughs as she half-heartedly attempts to disengage from their embrace before giving up and curling into his chest, choosing to nibble on his collarbone, and it’s the sort of punishment Zevran will always ask for, so he grins harder, all too pleased with himself in a way he knows she’s aware of, and then she bites a kiss on the underside of his jaw that makes his heart stutter and then race and he holds on to her like she’ll disappear if he doesn’t.

'Smug isn’t a good look on you, my love,’ she says, tone low and dangerous and addictive, her hands drawing patterns along his skin, and Zevran is thankful for the breeze cooling the flush of his cheeks.

He almost forgets his retort because he’s so drunk with her closeness, but then he remembers, and he rolls them over and kisses her, and says 'I believe it is my best look, amore,’ and then she makes him forget all about words again.

Later, when he can breathe again, Zevran looks down at their tangled bodies, and buries his face in her hair and breathes, and when she looks at him with those eyes of hers that he drowns in every time he knows that he’ll never be able to put the way he feels about her in words, but he needs to try his best anyway.

He lets his thumb trace her cheekbone, feeling the soft brush of her eyelashes as she blinks, and this must be a dream, it must be, because she is a goddess bathed in light and she is right here, right here with him, home with him, and he is overwhelmed by the immensity of it all, of how she saved everyone, how she saved him, how he could never have imagined this life he has with her, and the words slip out in a daze, whispered in the crook of her neck like a prayer, like supplication: 'You’re the best thing that has, and ever will, happen to me.’

And then she kisses him, claims him, and he falls all over again.


End file.
